On the Origins of Heroes
by EdenLake
Summary: Amell, Cousland, Tabris.  They each had their own reasons for coming.  Their reasons for staying, however, would change the world.
1. Chapter 1

In which our heroes escape with their lives, and little else.

Bel Cousland

The two cloaked figures made their way slowly through the rain, their horses understandably exhausted after a full day and night of riding. Only the mabari hound trotting alongside them seemed unaffected by the rain and general misery of their circumstances. They carried no provisions, no packs, nothing but the clothes on their backs and what spare weapons they had used to fight their way out of a castle under siege.

Bel should have been hungry, cold, and exhausted. The arrow wound in her side had reopened under the makeshift bandage, and rainwater was soaking through her clothes. But she didn't notice. She felt nothing, heard nothing, and paid mind to nothing but the throbbing pain in her heart.

Her family was gone.

Her mind raced with what-ifs. What if she hadn't agreed to meet Ser Gilmore in the stables that night? What if she'd been in the castle when Howe's men attacked? Could she have saved her mother, her father, or Oren and Oriana? Could they have taken the castle back?

Maybe they were still alive! Maybe she and Ser Gilmore should turn around right at that moment and ride back, hard, to rescue them? Then she sighed. _With what army?_ No, even if the fleeing servants were wrong, even if her family still lived, she had no way of helping them. She wore only her nightgown and a long leather coat she had stripped from the Howe soldier she had throttled with her own hands, and carried only the dagger she had taken from him. She had to find Fergus, and that meant riding south, to Ostagar.

Ayla Tabris

"Remember, if anyone asks, your name is Nessa and you're our daughter."

Ayla folded her arms and stared off at the side of the road. "I don't even really look like either of you." She immediately regretted her tone. She ought to have been grateful to these people. They were taking an enormous risk, sneaking her out of Denerim, leaving their own daughter in the Alienage with Cyrion.

But the kindly woman refused to be offended, and smiled wryly. "Oh Maker, when have humans been able to tell one elf from another?"

Ayla felt her face involuntarily rearrange itself into a smile, and was surprised at how good it felt.

"There now," her new mother said approvingly. "Try to get some rest. Teyrn Loghain's regiment is moving out in the morning, and with any luck, we'll be right behind it, and you'll be safely out of Denerim, on your way to a new life."

_A new life_. An odd thought. She hadn't particularly liked her old one, bound as it was on all sides by high walls, barred gates, and the whims of humans who were at best dismissive and at worst….

Ayla closed her eyes to see if they were still there. They were, those humans, those men, with their hands on her and her friends, standing over Shianni….

She jolted awake with a small cry, not realizing she'd fallen asleep. Immediately anger flooded her face with blood, and her hands balled into fists. She could not let them continue to hurt her, even from beyond the grave. She would win. She _had_ won. She was alive and they were dead.

And there was something to be said for that.

Jonas Amell

"There wasn't supposed to be any resistance!"

Jonas could barely hear his fellow Grey Warden over the crackling hiss of the lightning streaming from his staff. The two hurlocks before him staggered backwards and fell dead. Satisfied, he turned around only to face three more coming toward him. He could feel his mana running low, and struggled to muster the will to let out another spell. But the hurlocks were upon him, and he began to panic. Backed up as he was against the base of the Tower of Ishal, there was nowhere to run, and Alistair was pinned down with his own problems at the opposite end of the yard.

He managed to freeze the first hurlock, but that left two more and he was quite sure he had tapped the bottom of his mana reserves. As one of the monsters raised an axe high in the air above the mage's head, he began a silent prayer to the Maker.

And then, suddenly, the axe was gone, as was the hand holding it,…and the head. Both heads, actually. The hurlocks were dead, their decapitated bodies oozing black ichor over the snow. Jonas looked around expecting to see Alistair. Instead, he met the image of a female elf, wearing little more than rags, carrying a giant, two-handed sword that had to be taller than she was.

A dozen questions ran through his mind. _Where did you get that sword? How can you even lift it? Where in Thedas did you come from?_

Instead, all he managed was a lame, "Thanks."

She snorted derisively.

Alistair came running up behind her. "Thank you!" he cried, "thank you so…."

The former templar trailed off as the elven woman whirled around to face him. Jonas look quizzically at his companion. _Is he blushing_?

"I…" Alistair sputtered again, "uh…that was…very impressive!"

_He IS blushing_, Jonas realized, amused. But there wasn't time for flirting.

"Can you help us clear out the tower?" he asked urgently.

She looked about to say no, but her eyes flitted over to the battlefield where the sounds of King Cailan's men taking the brunt of the attack melded into a low rumbling roar, and she nodded her assent.

The three of them charged headlong into the darkspawn-infested tower.


	2. Chapter 2

In which our heroes meet on the road, and it doesn't go that well.

* * *

"Goliath! Slow down!" Bel called out, but the mabari stopped only momentarily, with an urgent bark in their direction, before running off ahead of them. She and Ser Gilmore walked alongside their sole horse, the other sold in Lothering for money to buy proper clothes and supplies. She trusted him not to go too far ahead, but his behavior was odd.

"He usually listens to you," the knight said, the worried look on his face darkening further. "Maybe something's wrong."

He thought they should turn back. He'd said so a number of times. The news from the south was not good. Defeat at Ostagar, King Cailan killed, the Grey Wardens decimated, alleged traitors to the crown. Still, there was no word about Fergus. The few soldiers they'd encountered on the road were consistent that his patrol had not come back before the battle, that he had not participated in the carnage. Bel was determined to search, and pulled rank on the young man who was ostensibly now in her service rather than her father's. They were going to Ostagar.

Goliath rounded along the edge of an outcropping of rock, and they heard barks in the distance. Too many barks for just one dog. She looked up at Ser Gilmore to see if he'd heard it too.

"Another mabari?" he said, genuinely surprised.

Bel let go of the reins leading the horse, and started to run toward Goliath. Where there were mabaris, there were soldiers. And more soldiers might have more information about Fergus.

When she rounded the outcropping, she stopped dead in her tracks and stared, dumbfounded. Goliath was playing with another mabari, bounding and pouncing and rebounding with joy, and behind the two dogs was the oddest collection of four people Bel had ever seen traveling together: a templar, a barbarian, a mage, and an elf.

They regarded her with the same puzzled, suspicious look. For a few moments, the only sound was the snappy barking of the dogs. Finally, the templar spoke up.

"My…lady?" he asked, carefully, unsure if that's what she was, "Are you…lost?"

For some reason, the question struck her as impertinent, and she shot back, "Are you, Ser?"

The question startled the templar, and he looked from the elf to the barbarian to the mage, and then back at her, as if to say, _why yes, yes I am_.

The barbarian rolled her eyes. "We are heading to Lothering," she said crisply, "so if you and your mutt would let us be on our way, we would be most grateful!"

Bel was annoyed but a little impressed by the woman's haughtiness. She had never met a Chasind before, and had not expected such self-possession. Thinking about it, she was not sure what she had expected, or why she had expected less. As is no many situations, she fell back on courtly manners.

"Pardon me, madam," she said, noticing the woman's flinch at the word (no one had ever said courtly manners were good manners), "we are heading to Ostagar. The presence of your hound here tells me you are coming from there. I'm looking for the…" she trailed off, unsure of whether to call him the Teyrn of Highever. Just how much news had reached Ostagar? She continued, "…my brother. I am told he was scouting in the wilds during the battle."

Bel noticed the elf's expression darken. She looked over her shoulder and saw Ser Gilmore finally rounding the outcropping, leading their horse.

The elf spoke up. "_My lady_," she said, almost mockingly, the rank seemingly confirmed by a horse and a servant, "I would not recommend traveling to Ostagar. The wilds are vast, and still overrun with darkspawn. You and your man would not last the night, and you would certainly not find your brother."

Bel regarded them all carefully again. She asked, slowly, "And what were the four of you doing at Ostagar?"

Finally the mage stepped forward, asserting authority. "My friend here and I are Grey Wardens," he began, gesturing at the templar, "and this is Ayla, and Morrigan. They're helping us." His tone of finality felt like an open challenge, daring her to continue her unwarranted interrogation.

Bel's back stiffened at the mention of the wardens, remembering the rumors at Lothering. "I'd be careful whom you tell that to," she said, gravely, "especially in Lothering."

"What do you mean?" the mage asked. "What have you heard about us?"

Without warning, the two hounds stopped playing and suddenly took battle stances facing east, and the templar and the mage drew their weapons, looking in the same direction. A second later a piercing shriek rang through the air, and Bel turned to see armed men coming through the tree line. Except that they weren't men.

They weren't men at all.


	3. Chapter 3

In which our heroes try not to kill each other.

* * *

Jonas could admit being wrong.

He could admit being wrong about their new companions. He hadn't expected much from the weary travelers. The man they had all mistaken for a servant plainly had training with a blade, and had largely held his own against the advancing darkspawn, although a nasty swipe to the leg had nearly felled him, and he'd had to be carried to camp.

The Lady Cousland, however, was no dilettante. Armed with only a rusty dagger, she had managed to fell her fair share of darkspawn, mostly by sneaking up behind them with their attention focused on Alistair or Ayla, and stabbing them squarely in the back of the neck. The process had covered her with a fair amount of sticky darkspawn blood, which her dog had then rather revoltingly licked from her face.

But Jonas was not wrong now, and he would not back down.

"I know the First Enchanter; he owes me. We should go to the Circle first and enforce the treaty!"

"I appreciate your desire to go home," Bel said, with her sickly sweet, completely disingenuous smile, "but standing between us and the Blight is an army commanded by Ferelden's greatest general, and we need allies against that army, which is why we need to go to Redcliffe first."

"I'm not trying to go _home_." Jonas allowed his voice to rise in irritation. Leave it to a rich noblewoman to assume that a place you had lived would necessarily be your home. "I'm trying to recruit an ally against the Blight."

"And I'm trying to recruit an ally against the regent, which we need to deal with _first_, and your fellow warden agrees with me!"

At this Alistair looked up guiltily. "It's not that I'm taking sides. I just, you know…."

"You trust Eamon," she finished for him. "I know. So do I."

"Of course _you_ would trust him," Ayla muttered, half under her breath.

"Fine," Bel huffed, "if you won't take my word for it, at least listen to Alistair. You trust _him_, don't you?" She shot a pointed look at Ayla.

Jonas was baffled. How had she turned this into a referendum on their faith in Alistair?

He was about to protest, when Ayla spoke up. "Fine," she said, "Alistair, if you want to go to Redcliffe first, I trust you."

Alistair blinked uncomprehendingly at Ayla, then looked up helplessly at Jonas, who scowled. "I think," Alistair began, tentatively, "that Arl Eamon could be a lot of help."

This was not, precisely, a decision on Alistair's part, but Bel didn't hesitate to treat it as one. "Redcliffe it is, then."

* * *

As Jonas set ablaze the pile of wood in the middle of camp, he half-marveled, half-raged at the sudden turn of events. How, precisely, had he lost control of the group? Alistair had basically ceded the Blight-related decision-making entirely to him, yet within a day of her arrival, the Cousland girl was making decisions and giving orders.

Why was she even with them? For the life of him, Jonas couldn't figure out why she'd put aside the search for her brother and offered to travel with them after they'd made it back to Lothering. Granted, it would have been a hopeless search; Ayla had been right about that. But Jonas was almost certain that Bel had learned something new in Lothering that had changed her plan of action, and she hadn't bothered to share it with the group. At the time, it seemed petty to question her motives when she was offering a skilled blade, but now, she was asserting authority, and people seemed to be following along.

Jonas saw two possibilities, one worse than the other. Either she was a spoiled brat used to getting her own way, or she had her own secret agenda.

Then he saw a third, even less appealing possibility. _Both_.


	4. Chapter 4

In which interests align, for the moment.

* * *

"Alistair, would you please just give that to her already?"

Jonas's voice sounded neither amused nor annoyed, and Alistair wasn't sure how to respond, so he fell back on denial.

"What? No. This isn't for anyone. It's just...pretty!"

Jonas rolled his eyes and seemed to flash the briefest of amused grins. "You've been carrying that rose around for days, and if you don't give it to her soon, it's going to fall apart, so please just man up and do it."

"You really think I should?"

"Mostly, I just want your hands free so that you can help me pitch this tent."

Alistair took a deeper breath than was likely necessary and marched toward the opposite end of camp where Ayla was sharpening her sword, while Jonas watched him and hoped he hadn't just created more of a problem than he'd solved.

* * *

"Listen, before we head to the castle, there's probably something I should tell you all." Alistair sighed, "Remember when I said Arl Eamon raised me?"

Bel did remember, and it had set off alarm bells in her head immediately. She couldn't imagine Eamon Guerrin siring a bastard, although she could imagine him acting honorably if he did.

"Well, he raised me because...King Maric was my father."

"Wait,...what?" Ayla gasped.

"Which would make you...the heir to the throne..." Bel mused quietly.

"Throne? No! I'm no prince. I'm no one! Stop looking at me like that; I can see gears turning in your head, and I don't like it one bit."

"Does Loghain know?" Ayla interjected, her astonishment giving way to worry.

"Why wouldn't he?" Alistair replied bitterly, "He was King Maric's best friend."

"You don't think," Jonas asked, "that you might have mentioned this earlier?"

"I'm sorry!" he protested, confronted now with three inquisitorial faces. "I just didn't want it to change how you thought of me," he sighed, with a meaningful glance toward Ayla. Both Bel and Jonas caught it, and their eyes met in mutual concern; for the very first time, they were on the same page, and it felt strangely comforting.

* * *

"Bel Cousland? Is that you? Maker, I can't believe it!"

Bel remembered Bann Teagan Guerrin as the self-serious, over-awed man who had constantly asked for her hand in marriage-from her parents, and never from her. Eleanor Cousland had defended him as a traditionalist, but Bel made him for a politician, and privately believed that her father shared her assessment.

Now, however, he was a friendly, familiar face, something grown rare in Bel's life, and she could not help warmly clasping his hands in hers and gushing, "Teagan, I can't tell you how good it is to see you!"

Ayla fought back the urge to roll her eyes. _Why did they all know each other?_ Redcliffe and Rainesfere were half a country away from Highever, yet they all acted as though they had played in the same yard since childhood. _I suppose Ferelden is their yard_, she considered, _which would make us their toys._

A glance over at Jonas told her he was thinking the same thing. His brow furrowed in the look of irritation that had become increasingly common on his face since Bel's arrival. Whether anyone else besides Ayla and Alistair saw it, a power struggle had erupted, and was coming to a head here in the Redcliffe Chantry, as Bann Teagan pretty much ignored everyone else in the room and addressed only his fellow aristocrat.

"The news from Highever...they said no one survived, that everyone was killed. Howe claims to have uncovered a conspiracy with Orlais."

"Don't you believe a word of it!" she hissed, her usual veil of well-bred composure slipping slightly to reveal the angry spitfire that Ayla had always suspected lay beneath the surface. The confirmation of this suspicion actually somewhat improved Ayla's opinion of the woman.

"I don't," Bann Teagan reassured her, "and I'm not alone. But Howe is now Loghain's right hand, and even those who suspect his treachery are reluctant to press the point while he sits by the regent's side."

"So I heard," she said, gritting her teeth.

At this Jonas stiffened and his eyes narrowed. Here, at last, the reason she had offered to accompany them. She was on a warpath to revenge, and that path led through Redcliffe and Arl Eamon; he silently cursed himself for being so easily manipulated into following her on it. He had to put a stop to this.

"My lord," he interjected, painfully aware that the need to use honorifics undercut the aura of power he tried to project, "I'm here on behalf of the Grey Wardens, the only two left in Ferelden, at any rate. I believe you already know Alistair," he said, playing the only card he had with the nobleman.

"Alistair!" Bann Teagan exclaimed, "the last time I saw you, I think you were covered in mud! Thank the Maker you yet live. Loghain would have us believe all Grey Wardens perished betraying the King. He's put quite the bounty on your heads, as I understand it."

Bel and Jonas shared another look of mutual concern, and Jonas relented. For the moment, their interests coincided. Loghain had to be stopped and Ferelden united to face the Blight.

First, however, there was the small matter of the army of living dead, due to arrive at sunset.


	5. Chapter 5

In which the score is tied.

* * *

It had become a familiar sight. Too familiar.

Bel and Jonas squared off over a decision, and tried to put Alistair in the middle, whereupon Ayla yanked the poor man out of the cross-fire and insisted they settle the matter rationally.

"I'm telling you, the Circle has enough lyrium and mages so we can save this boy without blood magic!" Jonas was almost shouting at this point.

"Even after their losses at Ostagar? What if we waste days or even weeks traveling there and back, and they can't even help us? Meanwhile, the army of living dead returns and finishes what it started. Do you really want to take that chance?" Bel stood toe-to-toe with him now, refusing to be cowed by the full foot-high height advantage he had over her.

Jonas fought the urge to drag Alistair back into the fight. He knew his fellow warden couldn't stomach the idea of killing a child, even an abomination, and was dead set against blood magic in any situation whatsoever. Then he had a stroke of genius.

"Some of us could stay behind," he offered. "There are enough of us here that if some remain, they can hold off the undead until the rest of return."

"I'll stay," Ser Gilmore offered.

Bel whirled around at him, furious at his insubordination, but even she couldn't deny the sensibility of the plan. Sensing an opportunity to be helpful and make peace, Alistair also offered to stay and guard Redcliffe. Bel's shoulders slumped a little at her defeat, and Jonas triumphed inwardly, until he realized she was about to offer to stay back, as well. He couldn't risk leaving her there, ostensibly in charge, alone with Alistair and Bann Teagan.

"Excellent," he announced, before she could speak. "Ayla and Morrigan can stay back, too. Bel, Sten, Leliana, you're with me."

His satisfaction upon seeing her mouth drop open at the straightforward command he'd just issued to her was substantial, to say the least. She looked about to protest, but seeing everyone else falling in line, she knew she hadn't a leg to stand on, especially to quibble over such a detail. If she didn't go with him, she would look petty and vindictive.

"I'll go pack my things."

By Ayla's count, they were now tied.

* * *

"Why do you hate me?"

The question didn't exactly come out of nowhere. Jonas had assiduously avoided speaking to Bel since they had departed Redcliffe, mostly because he didn't trust himself to avoid gloating. But with Leliana and Sten off hunting and gathering firewood respectively, the two of them couldn't well set up camp in complete silence. Still, her forthrightness surprised him given the penchant for cunning she'd displayed until now.

"I don't hate you," he answered, and realized that he'd picked up her habit of talking in circles.

"Okay, then why do you _act_ like you hate me?"

"Why does everyone have to like you?" he countered.

"Maybe they just _do _ like me."

"Or maybe they were kissing your ass because of your daddy and your soldiers and the big castle you used to have, and maybe you should get used to not being the most important person in the room now that they're gone!"

This was a low blow, and he knew instantly from the stricken look on her face that he'd gone too far, but before he could form an apology, Leliana's singsong voice pierced the air and Bel turned away to help her with the game.

They didn't speak again until they reached the Circle Tower.


	6. Chapter 6

In which our heroes get trapped, then hammered.

* * *

Jonas raised his 20-pound, foot-wide fist of solid rock and smashed it squarely into the priest's pretty face, sending her flying backwards.

She wasn't a real priest, of course. She was some Fade demon's approximation of a priest. And she was crazy.

Jonas had the feeling he would soon join her if he didn't get out of this place soon. He closed his eyes and willed himself to return to his human form, if only to remember what being human felt like. He had no way of knowing how much time had passed, or even if time passed in the same way in the Fade, but he felt exhausted, as though he had been moving through this maze for days. Not physically exhausted, exactly; what with all the shape-shifting, he'd ceased to feel physically limited in any way at all. But his mind was tired, and could not rest.

And he felt oddly _lonely_, which disconcerted him. He'd never minded solitude in the past, had even actively sought it as an escape from the crowded confines of the Circle. Now, trapped alone in his own mind, he found he actually missed Leliana's incessant nattering, Sten's blunt insults, and even Bel's glowering stare.

They were close, somewhere, he knew, trapped in their own dreams. But first, there was the demon behind this door. Realizing that rest did not come in the Fade, Jonas breathed deeply, felt his body burst into flames, and charged through the door.

* * *

Howe grabbed Bel's chin and sneered in her face. She tried to wrench herself away from his grasp, but with her arms were shackled on either side to the wall behind her, she succeeded only in smacking the back of her head against the stone.

He laughed. "Such spirit! I think she gets that from you, Lady Cousland," he sneered, glancing over at where that regal lady's bound and stripped body lay motionless, eyes vacant in a dead-wide stare. Bel let out a small wail at the sight.

Howe turned back to Bel and ran a taunting, lecherous finger over her cheek. She spat in his face. Enraged, he unsheathed his sword and crossed the room, standing over a bleeding Bryce Cousland.

"You should have disciplined her better, old friend!" he cried, stabbing the dying teyrn in the stomach yet again, causing another stream of crimson blood to gush onto the cold stone. Bel's father let out a pathetic choking cough that sprayed yet more blood. She had lost count of how many times Howe had run him through, yet his suffering refused to end.

"Bel?"

It came like a voice from a half-remembered dream, familiar yet unplaceable. She turned to see a man whose face she knew but did not completely trust, a man whose name escaped her. Confusion gave way to despair, as her father reached out a bloody hand toward her, pleading, "My child, do not leave us!"

"Bel, none of this is real," said the interloper, his voice infuriatingly calm and even. "I'm getting you out of here."

"I can't leave!" she cried, her voice breaking into a sob. She hung her head. "I left once already. I abandoned them."

The man knelt down beside her. "If you've already left," he asked, warily eyeing Howe, "then why are you here, now?"

She couldn't remember. Something was wrong. Many things were wrong….

"Jonas?"

But before he could answer her, Howe lunged at him with an enraged roar, a deep, gutteral noise that no human could make. Jonas leapt backward in a blinding flash of light and flames enveloped his entire body. A stream of fire from his hands sent Howe careening backwards in a panic. Bel heard the clank of sharp metal on stone, and felt the shackles fall to her sides. The hand offered to her was plainly on fire, but she took it and ran, refusing to look back.

* * *

Jonas looked warily around camp for Bel. They'd all been on edge since their sojourn in the Fade, but Bel in particular had been withdrawn and distracted, especially around him. She'd taken to going off by herself for long stretches to train with her daggers, returning with a sweaty brow, sunken eyes, and barely the strength the lift a piece of firewood. Jonas knew she was intentionally running herself ragged with training to distract herself from the pain. _Moron_, he thought. Didn't she know that was what brandy was for?

He dug around in his tent, looking for the bottle he'd picked up in Lothering. She was no use to him in her current state, and he figured he could sacrifice the bottle in the service of getting her functional again. Turning his belonging upside-down, though, he started to wonder if she'd beaten him to the solution. Sneaky, that one.

He found her by the river, bare feet digging into the silt. And she had the brandy with her. She took a deep swig.

"Hey!" he called out, "I was saving that."

Her face crinkled. "For what?" she demanded.

"Oh, I don't know…" he admitted with a shrug. "I thought it would make a nice gift."

She snorted, in a most unladylike way. He started to wonder exactly how much of that brandy she'd had. "A gift?" she sneered. "Like, in a Feastday basket for your vassals, with candied fruit and cheese?"

He stared blankly at her.

"You…have no idea what I'm talking about, do you? Maker, I'm _such_ a stuck-up bitch! Why am I like this? How can you stand me?"

"Actually, I _can't _stand you," he reminded her, a wry smile on his face.

A smile which, thankfully, she saw even through the haze of her drunkenness. She laughed and snorted again, which apparently sent some of the brandy through her nose, setting her coughing up a storm. Jonas couldn't contain his laughter. He took the bottle from her and sat down next to her, taking a long, deep drink.

"Ayla seems to have come around to you, though," he mused, "so that's saying something."

She smiled, and motioned to him to pass the bottle back to her.

As she took another drink, her brow furrowed in confusion, and turned to him suddenly with a question. "How does she lift that sword?" she slurred, her palms turning upwards in a gesture of bafflement, spilling some brandy from the bottle out onto the damp ground.

"I have no idea!" Jonas exclaimed, genuinely delighted that someone else was as dumbfounded by Ayla's skills as he was. "I mean, it's seriously taller than she is. It might actually _weigh more_ than she does."

The two of them collapsed into laughter, probably more than was warranted, but it felt _good_ to laugh, and with another person, so both tried to make it last. When their intoxicated giggles finally subsided, she passed the bottle back to him.

"Thank you," she said earnestly, "for saving me. I don't think I've said that yet."

He hadn't expected this, and didn't actually think it necessary. It had never occurred to him to leave her trapped in the Fade. They didn't get along, but he wasn't a monster. Groping for something to say to fill the awkward silence, all he came up with was, "You're not a bitch."

She raised an eyebrow. "No?"

"You're just…"

"You're about to say, 'spoiled,' aren't you?"

"I was going to say determined, but that actually sounds better than I want it to. So, yes, 'spoiled' is probably the better word."

"Determined?" she asked.

"You want vengeance. I get it, now. Especially after—" he stopped short, not wanting to remind her of her nightmare in the Fade, but she waived her hand for him to continue. "You're used to getting what you want. I just don't want anyone's personal stuff to get in the way of the bigger picture here," he finished.

She rolled her eyes. "That's naïve. Everything is personal."

He didn't answer her. They sat in silence for a few moments, wordlessly passing the bottle back and forth.

"Why don't you trust me?" she asked, wobbling a little. He put a hand on her shoulder to steady her so she wouldn't tip over into the mud.

"You said it yourself; everything is personal. I know you have your own agenda."

"See, and that's exactly why I don't trust you!" she slurred, punching him playfully in the shoulder. "I have no idea why you're here!"

"I'm a Grey Warden," he shrugged.

"Why did you become a Grey Warden?"

His answer was automatic. "I didn't have a choice."

"That's exactly my point! You didn't have a choice then, but you do now. You could have walked away from Ostagar and gotten on the first ship to the Free Marches. Why are you still here?"

"Because someone has to stop the Blight. You think the darkspawn are just going to stop at the borders of Ferelden? Someone has to do this, and if it isn't me, then who?"

She nodded. "Duty, then."

"Yes. Duty."

"You would have gotten along great with my father."

"He liked mages, did he?"

"He liked duty. And people who cared more about their duty than themselves."

"See?"

"And look where he ended up."

Jonas didn't know what to say to that, but he noticed that she was starting to shiver. He removed his worn brown cloak moved to lay it over her shoulders. As his arm drapped the cloth around her, she caught his hand and held it in place. He wasn't sure what to do. She nestled closer to him, laying her wobbly head on his shoulder.

"Do you really want to know why I care so much about duty?" he asked suddenly.

"Yes," she answered honestly.

He shook his head and sighed. "What else have I ever been allowed to do?"

Through a haze of brandy and fatigue, she saw him clearly for the first time. He had been an irritant, an obstacle, a killjoy, but also a man, a mage, and a Grey Warden; from childhood his existence had been tailored by men with swords to fit the greater good, and leaving the Circle for the Wardens amounted to trading one burdensome responsibility for another. The alternative was death, and he lacked the foolhearty stupidity to choose it.

"I'm sorry," she admitted with a sigh. "I've been selfish."

"No," he answered reflexively, surprising them both. He struggled to put his sentiments into words. "You're a good person. I see that now. I suppose we all have our own reasons for being here."

"Except you."

"Yes, except me. I only _wish_ I did. Because then I'd have _something_."

At a loss for words, she passed him the last of the brandy, which he took gratefully and drank down, letting the liquid warmth fill the place in his heart he supposed other people used for love, loss, and life.


End file.
